by Greenberg
“Yes.”
“Does anyone know about the trouble, yet?”
“The authorities don’t.”
“Go to a telephone booth and notify the carabinieri. Then make yourself scarce.”
“Yes,” Dom said.
“Have you any idea where the Princess went?”
“No idea.”
Baron shrugged and looked out the window at the darkened seascape.
Duke put up the R/T silently.
“The Princess is still free, we assume,” Baron mused. “In which case, she has probably panicked and run back to her apartment.” He bit his lip. “That’s exactly where she should not be. When Mr. Satin hears the news, he’ll be on his way there to pick her up.”
Duke’s eyes narrowed. “You think she took the formula?”
“Yes. The fact that a manila folder has been thrown aside means the formula must be in a more compact state. Say, in a film pack. And that would mean . . .”
Duke snapped his fingers. “I tailed her when she was shopping, Peter. She bought a dress, a coat, and then she went into Renfro’s on Via Roma and stayed a long time while she was being fitted for shoes.”
“Of course,” Peter Baron said. “She’s used the oldest trick in the history of espionage. It isn’t intelligent enough to fool a ten-year-old child. She’s put that film into a hollowed-out heel of her shoe! Come on, we’ve got to get to her before I.C.E. does!”
The Princess’s apartment was dark when Peter Baron forced his way in through the outer window of her bedroom. He quickly found her clothes closet, and in no time at all had the new pair of shoes. Slipping the heel to one side, he turned on his fountain pen flashlight and saw the hollowed-out hole and the canister of film inside.
He hurried to the window. “Duke!”
Duke lifted his head. He was balanced on a ledge which ran around the building.
“Take this quickly. You know what to do. I’ll get the girl out of here.”
Duke nodded and jumped down onto a balcony of the floor below. Peter Baron turned back into the room. He hurried toward the door. At that moment someone opened it. Instantly the room flooded with light. The Princess stepped inside and looked about her in dismay. She saw the closet and the clothes thrown about.
Baron moved out of concealment behind the door and clapped his hand over her mouth.
“Princess!” Baron whispered. “Don’t make a sound. We’ve got to get out of here. Do you understand?”
Her eyes widened and she tried to scream. Baron held her tightly. She bit his hand. Her gun dropped. He shook her roughly.
“No noise. You hear?”
She sagged in his arms, and he knew she would not cry out. He uncovered her mouth.
“I’m a friend. I want to save your brother’s life. Do you believe me?”
She watched him hopelessly. “I have to,” she admitted after a moment.
“Let’s go. You’ll get your shoes back. You’ve got to believe me. Princess! Please, please!”
She tried to form words with her lips, but could not. Then she burst out: “He will call tomorrow, telling me where to meet him to save Mario!”
“He telephoned you tonight?” Baron asked.
“A few minutes ago.”
“Then he’s liable to be here any moment. It was just a trick to see if you were here or not.”
Peter Baron seized her and dragged her quickly into the living room. He moved to the front door where he turned off all the lights. Then he opened the door a crack and looked out into the hallway. It was deserted.
“Come on!”
They moved quickly into the corridor toward the elevators. As they did so, the doors of one opened quietly. A man stepped out. He was a large, ponderous man, wearing a trench coat. Underneath the trench coat Baron spotted flamboyant ochre slacks. It was Mr. Satin.
Baron pushed the girl behind him and ran quickly toward the fat man. Mr. Satin turned, startled, and saw Baron. He reached into his pocket for whatever weapon he carried there. Behind him stood the man Baron had seen on the yacht.
Peter Baron leaped feet first at the fat man in the classical savate attack. Both feet took the big man in the stomach. Baron jumped back, still upright. Mr. Satin let out his breath in a gasp and folded in the middle. He slammed back into the second man and both went to the floor of the elevator. Mr. Satin’s head banged on the rear wall. He lay there stunned. The second man tried to get to his feet and leave the elevator.
The doors closed quickly, locking them both in, and the cage began to rise.
Mr. Satin bellowed in anger. It was too late. Peter Baron grabbed the Princess and the two of them ran toward the large window at the end of the corridor. Outside, they could see a fire escape. Baron opened the window quickly and thrust the Princess ahead of him onto the iron platform.
The two of them rushed down the iron stairs for two levels. Then Baron forced the window and they climbed inside. From there they went down to the basement along the inside stairs, until they found themselves in the building maintenance man’s storeroom. At the rear wall stood an old-fashioned coal chute, now out of use. Baron and the Princess climbed through that and emerged in a garden behind the apartment. Bordering the garden, Baron saw a stone wall.
“Over we go!” he snapped, and handed the Princess up. She jumped down on the other side. Baron followed.
Instantly, a fusillade of bullets rained down on them from one of the balcony platforms at the back of the Appartamenti D’Annunzio.
Mr. Satin’s curse floated down loudly in the silent night.
“Get them, you idiots! Find them! A thousand lire for whoever finds them! Ten thousand!”
Baron turned to the Princess. “You’d think he would have the decency to put a respectable price on our heads!” He made a wry face. “Bourgeois!”
6
RENDEZVOUS IN YUGOSLAVIA
Shortly before dawn, a small, ugly fishing craft moved out from Naples Harbor carrying three men in Neapolitan garb. The skipper was Cesar Maggio. Cesar was a cousin of Duke Farinese, who was the second member of the crew. He wore a turtleneck sweater, dungarees, and a wool cap. The third crewman was Peter Baron, dressed similarly, a heavy pair of Zeiss 10×50 binoculars slung around his neck.
The fisher moved through the placid, silent harbor, past the off-loading freighters at the docks. Her direction was westward, toward the Island of Ischia. Peter Baron leaned against the gunwale, peering through the powerful glasses.
“There she is,” he said finally.
Duke joined him. “The Basilisk? Mr. Satin?”
“Take a look.” Peter handed the glasses to Duke.
Duke focused them, grunted, and gave them back. “Get the wireless warmed up,” Baron told him.
The smells of the bay hung heavily over the sluggish waters. To their right, the city of Naples slumbered peacefully. A few flickering lights were the only indication of any kind of life in the sprawling metropolis. A stench of dissolution, decadence, and decay seemed to emanate from the ancient city’s bowels.
Baron’s race through the streets of Naples with the Princess had been a near thing. At the docks, he had handed her quickly aboard La Bonne Chance. They had sped out to Capri and moored at Peter’s villa. There he had put her safely to bed.
Duke had arrived soon afterward, accompanied by three armed guards who were even now hidden in strategic spots around the Villa di Pietro to stand off any invaders from I.C.E.
Taking the portable wireless set, Baron had commandeered Cesar Maggio’s fishing boat to close in on Mr. Satin’s yacht Basilisk. At close range – but not too close – he would establish communications with the fat man and set up the ransom of Mario Rimini.
“The wireless is ready, Peter,” Duke announced finally, looking up from the portable receiver-transmitter. “Shall I try to raise Basilisk?”
“Yes. Give them the message I wrote.” Baron squinted ahead at Mr. Satin’s yacht through the grayness which hung over the harbor. “Cesar, you
can stop the boat now.”
Cesar nodded. The fisher came to a wallowing halt and rose and sank rhythmically.
“Calling Basilisk, calling Basilisk,” Duke said in monotonous Italian. “Harbor Patrol calling Basilisk.” Duke lifted a hand and crossed his two fingers. “Come in, Basilisk.”
It was a good two minutes before Duke managed to raise the radio operator aboard Mr. Satin’s yacht.
“Basilisk here,” a voice said finally on the portable set. “Go ahead, please.”
“Message for Mr. Satin. Urgent message for Mr. Satin, owner of Basilisk.”
“What is the message?”
“Message reads: ‘We’ve got the film. You must guarantee delivery of your property. Set time and place immediately. Signed: Peter Baron.’”
Baron smiled. Duke punched him affectionately in the shoulder. “In one minute, I’ll wager we’ll hear from Mr. Satin.”
The beat rocked up and down steadily. Baron watched the Basilisk through the Zeiss lenses. It was almost three minutes, really, but the answer was not a message. Mr. Satin in person came on the alr.
“Mr. Baron, is that you?” he asked tendentiously.
Baron took the microphone from Duke. “This is Peter Baron.”
“You’ll pay for that kick in the ribs!” Mr. Satin said evenly.
Baron laughed. “I’ve a proposition for you. I’ve got the film.”
There was a short pause. “I’ll deal,” Mr. Satin said grudgingly. “The twin for the film.”
“Where and when?”
“Midnight, tonight. The girl must deliver the film in person. My own man delivers the twin. We meet on neutral ground.”
“I’ll be watching the exchange with a loaded rifle,” Peter Baron promised.
“So shall I,” Mr. Satin responded.
“Where?”
“Italy depresses me.”
“Russia depresses me no less,” Baron retorted. “Somewhere else.”
“A neutral country,” Mr. Satin suggested.
“Name it.”
“Hallwag map of Yugoslavia. Coordinates – 30 centimeters on the X axis, 23.5 centimeters on the Y axis from lower right zero. The mountain can be reached by air. Do you read me?”
“Loud and clear,” Peter Baron said, repeating the coordinates on the Hallwag map. “I’ll be there.”
“Midnight,” said Mr. Satin. “A bonfire at the end of the landing strip will lead you in. That is the rendezvous site.”
Princess Paula Rimini lay on her side, sleeping contentedly in a black silken nightgown Baron had rescued from the emergency wardrobe. Peter Baron decided not to awaken her to give her the good news. Then, as he stepped back to close the door, he saw her stir. Her eyes opened wide, filled with horror, and she began to tremble. Then she saw where she was, and she recognized him. She fell back on the pillow in relief.
Peter Baron sat down on the bedside. The morning sun had just risen outside. A shaft of golden light passed through the grilled window and fell on the terra cotta flooring. Grapevines entwined the wrought-iron bars. A breeze stirred the leaves – a breeze tangy with the scent of the open sea.
“I’m so tired,” Paula said ruefully, sitting up and patting her dark lovely hair.
“You had a full evening,” Baron said soberly. “But we have good news this morning.”
“Oh?”
“Your brother will be returned to you at midnight tonight. In exchange for him we will give over the film.”
Her eyes clouded. “But I do not have the film.”
Baron reached into his pocket and held it out to her. “Take it. You won’t feel right unless you have it on your person.”
“Thank you.” Her dark eyes suddenly filled with tears. “You have been so good to me.”
Baron’s hand covered her slim one. “You’ve been through too much. Go back to sleep.”
She watched him, her face disturbed.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I’m mixed up,” she whispered. “Always I thought that every man was the same – a husband, a father, a brother.”
“Now?” He smiled gently.
“You do not fit into the categories I have mentioned. You . . .” She shook her head in frustration.
Baron’s brow arched mockingly. “A lover?”
“You should not say that,” she scolded. “Dr. Forester is a fine man. Like a husband. But like a father. Not like you.”
Baron leaned toward her, kissing her gently on the lips. “Go to sleep. You tempt me too much.”
She drew back, her eyes warm and full. “Perhaps you are not the only one tempted.”
“Rest, Princess,” said Baron, resolutely pulling away from her presence.
“I do not need rest,” she laughed. Her hands reached out, warm and soft, and touched his shoulders. She drew him down toward her, and fastened herself to him as her lips joined his.
He embraced her tightly and kissed her hungrily. She responded, and that was the end of the foolish talk.
Birds chirped overhead. Fleecy clouds dotted the blue sky. Red, blue, white, and green sails glimmered on the horizon below. Seagulls shrieked as they dove against the cliffs. In the solitude of the courtyard of Villa di Pietro, Peter and Duke studied the Hallwag map spread out on the cast-iron table between them.
“They’re clever,” Baron murmured. “Yugoslavia is only a hop, skip, and jump from here. The helicopter which picked up Mario the other night could make the trip in no time.”
“That puts us on foreign soil for the exchange,” Duke grumbled.
“Exactly. That’s Mr. Satin’s strategy.”
“You said he’s not tied up with the Reds. I don’t understand.”
“In a country like Tito’s – Reddish, but not totally crimson – it’s at least possible to pull off an international exchange like this without the authorities kicking up a tremendous furor.”
“You’re sure Rimini is there now?”
“You said you’d searched the yacht for him before you found me on Basilisk.”
“He’s not on Basilisk,” Duke said positively.
“Then he’s in Yugoslavia. Right near Mount Krstaca, where Montenegro and Serbia meet.”
“It may be a trap.”
“Of course. And I’ve prepared a series of defense maneuvers,” Baron said.
“What do you need from me?”
“I need the black box, the modified DX paste, and a bundle of sticks.”
“Right, Peter.”
“Is the Cessna checked out satisfactorily?”
“Done.”
Peter Baron was referring to his private, specially equipped Cessna passenger plane which was right now serviced and ready to fly out of the Naples Airport.
“Good. We know the black box works – at least, it did on the test run. So we should be all ready for the flight.”
Duke hunched over the map, lines of concentration furrowing his forehead. “Let’s go over the action again, step by step. I don’t want to miss anything.”
Peter Baron nodded and began a detailed breakdown of his scheme of attack and counterattack.
Shortly before dusk Peter Baron, Duke Farinese, and Princess Paula Rimini checked into the Alamino Hotel overlooking Naples Harbor. As soon as they were inside their suite, Baron pulled the Zeiss glasses out of a small black bag and walked over to the window overlooking Naples Harbor.
“Five minutes to go,” murmured Baron.
“Am I supposed to know what you are talking about?” the Princess asked in exasperation.
“No.”
She smiled and sat down in a chair.
Peter Baron adjusted the ten-magnification power glasses, which he focused on the road that ran by the hotel. It was known as Highway N 19. It traveled from Reggio, in Calabria, at the southern tip of Italy, all the way to Rome. Through traffic north and south on the west coast of Italy passed along N 19.
“There’s the car,” he said.
Duke looked down into the s
treet below.
Peter Baron’s off-white Lancia moved along at the head of a group of cars.
Baron chuckled. “Your brother-in-law doesn’t look much like me, Duke, but I think he passes muster.”
“Best I could dig up on such short notice.”
“The girl’s a little on the plump side for the Princess,” Baron mused, looking across the room at Princess Paula Rimini. She blushed prettily.
“How about me?” Duke asked. “You haven’t even noticed me down there.”
“You’re not important enough,” Baron laughed.
“Still, it is a good resemblance. Those three do look like us – definitely.”
“It’s the Lancia that proves the deception. That’s the only real thing there.”
“Is the masquerade successful?” Duke wondered anxiously.
Baron continued gazing at the highway. He saw the blue Fiat about a block in back of the Lancia. Two men were in it.
“I see it,” Baron told Duke. “A blue Fiat? Isn’t that what Dom said?”
“With two men in it,” Duke added.
“It’s following the Lancia,” Peter said with satisfaction, lowering the glasses and putting them back in the black bag. “Princess, it’s time we were on our way again.”
Princess Paula Rimini frowned prettily. “I do not understand what has happened.”
“The Lancia is a decoy, Princess,” Baron explained cheerfully. “One of the Duke’s men said someone followed us from Capri. So, we give them a fake Peter Baron to follow up N 19 and a fake Princess to ambush on the road for the formula.”
“And then?”
“We get into my Cessna and we fly to Yugoslavia to keep our rendezvous with I.C.E.”
“But don’t the kidnappers know about your Cessna?”
“They do,” Baron said softly. “But, for a handful of silver, a report went to interested I.C.E. agents that Peter Baron’s personal plane is out of commission. If he flies today, he flies from Rome. Hence the trip of the off-white Lancia northward.”
“A simple decoy,” Duke explained.
The Princess sighed unhappily. “It’s all Greek to me.”
Baron beamed. “We simply go to the Naples airport, file a fake flight plan to Bari, and fly to the rendezvous in Yugoslavia.”
